


Love and Other Hasty Decisions

by BourbonNeat



Category: The Grand Tour (TV) RPF, Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Comfort, Episode Related, Falling In Love, Jeremy's columns, M/M, TGS Secret Santa 2016, Writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 11:46:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9233732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BourbonNeat/pseuds/BourbonNeat
Summary: I’m going to write and write until the smiles come back.But what’s a Clarkson to do when writing is suddenly part of the problem?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the TGS 2016 Secret Santa Fic Exchange for Maskovaya_sova.
> 
> Based on the following prompt: Jeremy wins James over through his columns.
> 
> Disclaimer: I have taken many, many liberties with the timeline leading up to the debut of The Grand Tour because, of course, this is complete fiction.

_I’m going to write and write until the smiles come back._

If Jeremy could be arsed to come up with something so pointlessly navel-gazing as a personal philosophy, it would be this. He’d written the lines nearly two decades before in response to the depression created by one specific void in his life, but the concept had seen him through countless difficult times since then.

Writing: his perfect antidote for everything. For everything that is, until the fallout from the _annus horribilis_ and the consequences of his own moments of idiocy culminated in a void so dark and so deep that it swallowed up all of his words, turning the former comfort of his laptop and an open Word document into a void all its own.

Fortunately, the words of his friends got him through it, lending him strength until Jeremy could find his own again.

 

\---

 

James’ words gave him unexpected comfort.

“I’ve said many times before, the man is a knob. But I quite like him,” James informed the group of reporters camped outside his red door, the stubborn set of his jaw daring anyone to contradict him.

Jeremy had watched the bloody video more times than he cared to admit and was consistently surprised by how warm it made him feel.

 

\---

 

A late night phone call with Andy, of the sort destined to end with two empty bottles of wine on two different sitting room tables and the barest of pink tinges starting to show on the horizon, gave Jeremy perspective.

“I’ve ruined everything,” he moaned, without a trace of hyperbole. “Smashed it all to bits.”

“Yeah, you do that sometimes.” Andy’s voice was warm, lost in memories, and the man actually chuckled before growing serious again. “Oh, this is bad Jeremy. Really bad. But it’s been bad before.”

“This is different.”

“It’s not really. This is what we do, you and I, we build something brilliant and we love it. Then it grows too big and unwieldy, until the shine’s all come off and it’s nothing but frustration. You go mad and break it, and then we move on and think of something else to build. This part’s always the bad part. You’ll remember once we get to the building part again. That part’s always better.”

And, oh god, he wanted to believe. But… “No. This is worse.”

“For you? Probably. But I have to tell you, for me Repton was much worse. No prospects, no perspective on things, and no idea I’d ever run into your ugly mug again. You’ve fucked things up, no sugarcoating that. But we’ve been someplace a bit like here before, and this time we’ve got Richard and James besides to help with the building.”

 

\---

 

Richard’s words coaxed him into stepping out in public again. Aggressively. It was a particularly Richard-ish sort of coaxing.

It was the first time all four of them had been in the same place together since the BBC’s announcement, and everything was brilliant. Except for the inevitable paps snapping photos in droves from the street below Jeremy’s balcony.

Richard glared down at the street for the tenth time in the last hour, right hand forming the two-fingered salute just below the rail, before clenching into a fist and falling back to his side.

“Careful, mate,” Andy laughed. “We all want to do that, but do you really want to explain the front page photo to your girls?”

That brought about a smile. “Wouldn’t have to explain it to them. That’s the problem.”

Which set them all giggling again, James’ loud bray no doubt audible from the street. The Hammond girls took after both their parents in that regard.

“This _is_ all getting a bit ridiculous though, Jezza,” insisted Richard, returning to the argument at hand. “Those cameras are going to keep flashing no matter what we do and you need to get out of this flat for a few hours. Besides, you’re all out of gin. Let’s go to. The. Pub.”

Jeremy demurred, grumbling about the noise, the difficulties of wading through the reporters, the impossibility of even managing to get to one of their cars.

Richard was having none of it. “Even better – we’ll walk. Let them take photos. Let them take all the photos they want! They’re going to keep fucking up the story anyway. At least they won’t be able to say we’re very angry and left you all alone anymore.”

And how was he supposed to argue with that? In the end they didn’t just walk, they strolled. They enjoyed several hours at the pub, largely unmolested. And, while they didn’t reach any actual conclusions about their future projects together, other than being highly in favor of having them, Jeremy laughed more than he had in months.

 

\---

 

In the end, it was James who got him writing again. Well, James, and an argument of sorts, and a moderately impressive amount of alcohol, which was fitting really.

“Good god, man! What manner of hurricane has struck in your kitchen?”

Oh, yes. That. Jeremy had grown so used to avoiding eye contact with any surface in his kitchen since his disastrous attempt at finding a hobby, that he’d forgotten what it must look like to anyone else.

“The kids were visiting for the weekend and I decided to make a pho,” he said, as if that explained everything.

If you knew Jeremy well, it almost did. Which was why James simply returned from the kitchen with a corkscrew and a noticeable lack of anything resembling a drinking vessel, gave Jeremy a look of concern mingled with exasperation, and didn’t ask any more questions.

Avoiding the kitchen entirely, they ordered takeaway curry and sat together on the sofa eating directly from the containers. They drank the wine James brought in similar fashion, laughing as they shared the expensive bottles back and forth like university students with something cheap off the bargain shelf, their fingers tangling just a little longer with each pass. Slowly, breath by breath, Jeremy felt his mind and the tension in his shoulders start to relax. It was a gift of an evening as far as he was concerned, unexpected company on a night when he’d been especially low, and the wordless void that hovered around his computer seemed especially oppressive. Between the three of them, Andy, Richard and James seemed to be developing a sixth sense for such things. Either that or they were conspiring to keep tabs on him, possibly aided and abetted by his two eldest. Jeremy had strong suspicions about the latter.

The next time James took the bottle from his hand, he set it down on the table, leaned over and pressed his lips to Jeremy’s. The kiss was feather light, teasing. Until Jeremy responded with a moan, reaching over to pull James closer and deepening the kiss, warm and real and perfect. Jeremy realized he had been longing for this, even though he hadn’t consciously thought of it months.

Slowly, perhaps inevitably, they made their way down the hall and to bed. They had come together like this a handful of times since both men became single and, as in the past, it was exactly what Jeremy needed. Comfort and affection given and received. The simple pleasure of being held and touched by someone who understood him and wanted to be there, of falling asleep next to another person with whom he was completely at ease. Truly a gift of an evening.

 

 

When he awoke, they were still pressed companionably together, cozy and warm beneath the layers of blankets. Jeremy rolled up to kiss the bare shoulder beside him, feeling grateful and, yes, happy. He was surprised to find James already awake, knowing how the man adored his lie-ins.

“Morning, Slow," he murmured into hair fluffy and tangled from sleep. Cuddling was usually still regarded favorably until they were truly dressed and ready to meet the day.

“Good Morning, Jezza.” James’ voice carried the expected tone, but when he rolled over his expression was complicated. Pleased and sated, yes, but also something a lot less comfortable.

Oh, right. Jeremy recognized that look. Not regret exactly, but the beginning of a particular sort of panic. Of worried questions. Of, did I overstep, did I take advantage, and will this change everything? He remembered the way it felt on his own face after their first time together several years ago when it had been Jeremy offering comfort.

That first time, James had fixed everything, offering him a smile, a quick, reassuring kiss, and the words that allowed them to ease back into friendship (and occasionally back into bed all over again) without any lingering trace of awkwardness. “Don’t worry, Jezza, it’s just sex. Anyway, I never make important, life-altering decisions when I’m this hungover."

Jeremy smiled at the memories, of that first time and of the night before. “It’s just sex, Slow," he offered, voice still thick and sleepy. "And you know I never make important decisions when I’ve had this much wine.”

James considered that for a moment, as a slow grin began to spread across his face. “No, it’s no good. You’ve used that one already.”

Jeremy snorted. “I have? Oh, right. After the live show in Joburg.”

“No, Spain. I believe Johannesburg was something a bit closer to not when I can’t even see straight," he said, lowering his voice and dropping in a hint of Yorkshire at the end in imitation.

Jeremy nipped at his shoulder in protest, glad for the excuse to burrow closer for a little while longer. “Pedant. How are there rules?”

James just smiled, the entire set of his shoulders relaxing and that worried, questioning look all but gone. Right, rules. Because rules kept everything playful, let them be this some of the time and everything else they were to one another the rest of time.

“Oh, very well then. I don’t make life-altering decisions when my entire life is collapsing around my ears. How’s that?”

It was the truth after all, and silly rules and banter aside, it certainly seemed sensible to avoid any heavy decisions when everything felt so uncertain. And yet he felt the oddest twinge of longing at the thought. Another argument in favor of rules, he supposed.

James interrupted his musings with a yawn. "Gonna try to sleep for another hour. Do you think you can? You could really use it, Jez."

"Could try." James certainly had a point, but sleep and Jeremy were old adversaries and, generally speaking, once he was awake, he was…

 

 

When Jeremy awoke the second time, James was no longer in bed and the pillow on his side had gone cold. A glance at his watch confirmed that somehow Jeremy had managed to sleep until nearly 10:30, which was a complete sodding miracle and explained this strangely rested sensation. Listening to the noises of the house, he could hear James puttering around somewhere and, wait, was he actually hearing… Oh bless the man! There was water running in his kitchen.

For the day’s second miracle, not only had James the Spaniel-Haired, Patron Saint of pedantry, carburetors, and now apparently of lost cause co-presenters as well, done enough of the washing-up that Jeremy could actually see his worktop, and down into the sink, but there was coffee and something that looked remarkably like breakfast.

“It’s like magic, May. I could have sworn there was nothing in my refrigerator but rosé, brown sauce, and stale bread.”

“Ah, but you’re forgetting the leftover curry. Stale-ish bread redeemed by toasting and curry sauce. Heavenly yes, but just a simple improvisation. Hardly magic.”

Naturally, this lead to an argument over breakfast, their most natural and mutually enjoyed form of communication.

“Cooking is witchcraft, James, pure and simple.”

“I thought that was rally driving.”

“That too. But honestly, May, think about it. You put butter and flour into an oven and somehow it comes out after a while and it’s a delicious cake. Why didn’t it come out as a scone? How isn’t it a yorkshire pudding instead?”

James responded with something terribly James-ish and expected about recipes and books and the ratio of particular ingredients, but Jeremy had barely noticed because, by god, that was a bloody good line. He fished his mobile out of his pocket and started to text himself a note until the relative size of his fingers compared to the letters on the virtual keyboard became too frustrating. Cocking thing never was much good for anything longer than a quick note. Casting about the kitchen for some form of pen and paper, his eyes lit on his laptop, resting there on the worktop where he’d abandoned it when the recipes he looked up had failed to produce edible pho. For the first time in months he opened the familiar silver lid without even thinking about the void, and started to write.

He resurfaced an indeterminate amount of time later when James refilled his coffee and placed the cup back in front of him. “Are we going to see a fresh column this week, then?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Jeremy replied absentmindedly. “Probably. This is actually going rather…” Wait. He looked up from his computer and turned in his chair to meet amused blue eyes. “You knew?”

“’Course I knew, pillock. I am rather well acquainted with your writing, you know. Certainly well enough to tell when your editor’s been delving into your emergency stash for weeks.”

It took Jeremy a beat or two longer than usual to fully process the implications. “You’re reading my column now, May?”

“Always. How else am I supposed to know if you’re plotting something especially daft to drag us all into?”

Well, the man had a point, and Jeremy would have devised a suitable comeback were it not for the siren call of the keyboard in front of him. He heard James chuckle as he turned back to his work and, just before the words spinning through his brain drew Jeremy’s full attention back to the page, he felt two strong hands squeeze his shoulders, friendly and encouraging, while lips pressed gently against the bare skin at the top of his head.

 

\---

 

Any lingering questions about conspiring co-presenters and executive producers were answered when Richard turned up at his door the next morning with coffee and a carrier bag of groceries in tow. “In town for the next few days with _Jungle Quest_ meetings and thought I’d drop by.”

The man looked disgustingly cheerful for someone who had clearly finished torturing himself with a morning run only an hour or so before, and Jeremy was so happy to see him that he only called him a ridiculously short mother hen once. Amusingly enough, left to his own devices Richard apparently shopped like the picky child he still tended to eat like. Which suited Jeremy just fine, really, because that was about all could handle cooking.

Andy dropped by the following week. Jeremy could not for the life of him figure out the pattern of their visits, but it was clear that they had some sort of schedule. Glass in hand, he began to share the farm show ideas he’d started drafting. Andy let him rattle on for precisely 47 seconds before pronouncing the entire concept complete and utter shite. Not that that stopped either of them from sketching out increasingly preposterous Top Gear style challenges for said theoretical farm show over the next two bottles of wine. It was glorious – not the building part that Andy had reminded him of, exactly. Not yet. But something very close to it.

Of course he eventually turned parts of the conversation into a column, certain the idea of the former Top Gear boys filming some sort of Top Tractor would keep the fans laughing and the reporters guessing, with the added benefit of needling Andy.

The Sunday that it ran, James texted to congratulate him on plans for his new solo project, with heavy emphasis on the word solo. Jeremy laughed a lot longer and louder than it probably deserved.

 

\---

 

The building part continued through its infant stages. Ideas percolated. Offers started to come in, several of them intriguing. The four of them had actual business meetings and conference calls to attend. It was seriously weird, actually, but sort of wonderful in its own frightening way. Through it all, Jeremy’s return to writing continued to provide him with focus, amusement and solace when needed. Well, in every single instance except one.

Jeremy was more grateful to Andy than he could ever hope to say for working with the BBC to salvage a final episode for Top Gear. Even more so for somehow managing to arrange it so he could provide something akin to his usual voiceovers for the films. But, oh fuck, how was Jeremy supposed to write a fitting script to send his baby off properly? And on a deadline too.

The wordless void that had all too recently swirled around his laptop began making brief reappearances every time he so much as contemplated it. Jeremy sighed, remembering the steadying comfort of a pair of hands lingering on his shoulders, the warmth of a brush of lips.

Clearly there was only one answer for it: he called James.

“May,” he blurted out the second the man answered the phone. “I’m bored and I can’t sleep and everything is really bloody awful. Fix it.”

James’ laughter was a surprised bark. “Well what am I supposed to do, Clarkson? Read you a bedtime story?”

Which was more or the less the perfect answer. Jeremy couldn’t keep the smile off his face as he pretended to consider the offer. “Well, I suppose you might succeed in boring me to sleep. Some hot milk wouldn’t go amiss either. Only mine’s gone off.”

“Why am I not surprised?” The particular blend of fondness and exasperation in James’ voice was a soothing balm. “Might I suggest whisky instead? Oz has been visiting small-batch distilleries again, and he dropped by the other day with presents.”

Jeremy started to grumble reflexively at the mention of that particular name. Something about the stupid, poncy git just rubbed him the wrong way. Perhaps it was the amount of time he spent trying to rub James. The man did have amazing taste though. “Well then, it sounds like I should head over to yours. I mean, since you’re offering.”

“Hmm, it does sound that way, doesn’t it?” James paused before adding, almost as if it were an afterthought, “You know, you might as well bring your laptop with you. Just in case.”

Jeremy hung up the phone laughing and relieved. Of course James understood without asking. Of course he did.

As it turned out, a day spent in Hammersmith was exactly what was needed. James set him up at the kitchen table, ostensibly so they could talk while the man prepared one of his pies. However, the fact that this mirrored that morning in Jeremy’s flat when the words finally came back was not lost on him. They argued about the conclusions they may or may not have reached at the end of the classic car enthusiasts film. They bickered over the planned specifications on James’ ill-timed new Ferrari. They drank whisky and ate pie, and when Jeremy looked down at the file open on his computer, he’d written some 5,000 words, roughly two-thirds of which could be usable, depending on Andy’s film edits. Quite the productive day, all told.

 

\---

 

Life progressed. Eventually they had an impressive three-series deal (one that, even more impressively, worked perfectly with their vision), an idea for a show they all agreed could be brilliant (even if it didn’t have a name), and their very own production company (which did have a name – the best name any production company shared by three idiots and their executive cat herder could possibly dream of having). And if, during this time, he and James found themselves further clarifying to one another the myriad of situations under which they could not be expected to make life-altering decisions with greater frequency than ever before, Jeremy couldn’t even bring himself to question it. He was happy again – some of the time, a lot of the time actually – he was writing more than ever and this, whatever it was, was clearly part of it.

 

\---

 

When Jeremy answered his mobile, he knew that it would be a very tired James on the other end, but he hadn’t expected quite the level of bone-deep exhaustion that greeted him.

“My eyes are ready to fall out of my head from reviewing the edits, I still need to write the voiceover scripts, and I can’t seem to convince my brain to string two coherent sentences together.” James’ voice was almost whiny with frustration, the man clearly at the end of his tether.

Jeremy empathized, really he did, but his reaction was nothing if not predictable.

“Right, thank you Jezza. You just sit there and laugh,” James grumbled. But it was at least a half-fond grumble, and the hopeless note of a few moments before was noticeably absent. “It’s bloody awful trying to be you, you know. Even just some of the time. Remind me why I do this again?”

“Because you’re absolutely besotted with your _Cars of the People_ and you’ve been dying to bore us all with the details… I mean, to tell this story for years now.”

And it was the last piece of writing James would be doing for the Beeb for the foreseeable future, which made everything that much harder. But now was not the time for Jeremy to set them both wallowing in that particular bit of insight, not when he’d just managed to get James laughing again.

“I have it on excellent authority,” he offered instead, “that whisky and moving one’s laptop to a sympathetic mate’s kitchen work wonders in these situations.”

James’ sigh of relief was audible. “And, lacking any sympathetic mates, I suppose your kitchen will have to do?”

“See, that’s why all the reviewers always said you’re the smart one. Yes May, get your arse over here and we’ll see if we can string three and maybe even four sentences together, coherency to be determined later. Which reminds me – bring whisky. Yours is always much better than mine.”

 

 

“So, tell me about your car show,” Jeremy teased, Freud impression intentionally awful, as a thoroughly frazzled James sank gratefully into his sofa.

It worked. James might have started out worrying over production details and the minutiae of editing in that same tired voice from the phone, but once Jeremy was able to subtly steer him away from all of that – “Shut up about cut scenes already, Slow, and tell me about the bloody cars.” – he started to light up describing his adventures driving the earliest Willys Jeep and the Series 1 Land Rover. Soon they were happily bickering over the relative merits of the Land Rover and the Land Cruiser as the stress and tension began to fade from James’ face.

“Stay?” Jeremy asked later, temporarily interrupting the companionable silence of the last several hours’ shared writing.

James looked up from where he was sprawled across the sitting room floor with his laptop. “You’re just tired of takeaway and want someone to cook you dinner,” he grumbled affably, looking relieved.

“Well, yes, naturally.”

“And if I’m sick to death of cooking and want to order takeaway, what then?”

“Stay anyway,” Jeremy offered magnanimously. “We’ll order Thai this time, and you can compromise by making me breakfast.”

The only response he received was the sound of James’ fingers clacking against the keys. But the man was smiling. They both were.

One night turned into two, making this one of the more pleasant, productive weekends Jeremy could remember spending. Inevitably, it ended with the understanding that Jeremy shouldn’t worry, James would never make a serious decision while his brain was so much happy mush from completing not one but all three voiceover scripts.

The only surprise really was how reluctant Jeremy was to hear that particular part of their usual banter.

 

\---

 

He was never quite certain when he started leaving little messages for James scattered like Easter eggs throughout his columns, because in the beginning it was not a conscious act. By the time Jeremy reviewed the Mazda MX-5, however, he was no longer able to deny that was, in fact, exactly what he was doing. Not even to himself.

 

 

> _…Not that you’ll want to stay the night anywhere because, ooh, this is a lovely little car to drive. Because it’s so organic and raw and simple, it feels how a sports car should. It sings and fizzes and jumps about. It always feels eager and sprightly, and that makes you feel eager and sprightly too. It’s a cure for depression, this car, it really is. You just can’t be in a bad mood when you’re driving it..._

His efforts were rewarded the following Monday at the office. Because, yes, they had a real office now, with a conference room and grownup furniture and everything. (It was no grotty little Portakabin, that was for certain, but they could hardly blame the office for that.)

James’ smile was pleased to the point of bursting as he leaned in Jeremy’s door. “MX-5 gives you the fizz then, does it? I loved that car too.”

“No James, I haven’t suddenly developed your fizzing penis root,” Jeremy said sensibly, pausing dramatically before stating that the car sang and fizzed, which was clearly something else entirely.

Naturally James argued back, poking at the wording, and Jeremy sputtered and fumed, because they expected and enjoyed it, jousting with words until they both glowed.

Contrary to his earlier claims, Jeremy felt something warm and decidedly fizzy building inside his chest. Which, if one were going to experience the sensation, seemed a far more practical place to be fizzing than James’ spiritual clitoris.

 

\---

 

Jeremy carefully adjusted his position against the hotel pillows, mindful of his injured lov-, of James, who had only just settled into sleep pressed against his side. Apparently the man really was more comfortable resting his broken wrist on Jeremy’s chest than he had been able to manage on his own with pillows and blankets the night before.

Clumsy spaniel. All of the barely advised antics they’d been getting up to on stage for the last several months and somehow he managed to break his wrist at the after party. The night before they started filming for the new show in earnest, naturally. Jeremy’s smile was fondly exasperated as he moved his arm to hold James just that much tighter, pressing a kiss into thick waves of increasingly snowy hair. Which was not really what they did, but perhaps it should be.

James stirred, raising his head slightly and murmured something that sounded vaguely like a question.

Feeling caught out, Jeremy said the first thing that popped into his mind. “Don’t worry, I’d never expect you to make a serious decision when you’re loaded to the gills on pain killers.”

“M’not loaded…” Jeremy could practically hear the man’s brain working through the lengthy pause as it tried to assess his level of impairment. “Never mind, I suppose I am.” He laughed softly and laid his head back down, burrowing deeper into Jeremy’s shoulder before pausing again, as if remembering he still had a question. “When did we start making excuses for just sleeping?”

When indeed? It wasn’t as if this was their first time sharing a bed without the expectation of sex, but that was part of it. The way their bodies slid comfortably into place beside one another, already knowing exactly how they fit together to rest, even with an injury in need of special care. The growing realization that James turned to him for comfort every bit as reliably as he turned to James. The waves of protectiveness he felt for the man, more intense than even close friendship could explain.

Tonight seemed so much more intimate than anything else they had managed to get up to in a bed. And he wanted… he wanted this _and_ everything else, all at the same time and with no attempts to excuse it, no matter how amusing. Unfortunately, there was a certain amount of truth to his most recent efforts at deflection: it would not be fair to start this conversation with James right now.

“I don’t know,” he finally offered instead. “When did we start just sleeping together?”

James yawned and mumbled something about Jeremy being better than pillows. Well, good then. At least the pain killers were working.

 

\---

 

Of course, knowing what he wanted and asking for it were entirely different things. Jeremy might well and truly have his words back again, but that didn’t mean he was having an easy time finding the right ones for James.

Still, waking up that last morning in Barbados, a bit bruised and sunburnt from filming and happier than he could say with James’ hair tickling his nose and their legs tangled together in the sheets, he realized he had to try.

“But you don’t make important decisions when your life is falling apart,” James insisted, blue eyes blinking owlishly in surprise.

“I’ve already used that one,” Jeremy argued, hoping to quell the familiar panic and worried questions with a variant of their old logic.

James opened and closed his mouth, paused, and tried again. “Fine. Then I don’t make important decisions when your life is falling apart.”

“That’s just it, James,” he said softly. “My life seems to be coming back together quite nicely these days, and I want-”

“Jezza, I…”

“Come on, May, isn’t all of this just an excuse to never make a decision?”

James looked like he wanted to protest, but… “Yes, Jeremy,” he finally admitted quietly to the floor. “Because that’s what we know works for us. That’s how this has always worked.”

Well that had certainly gone well. Not a fight exactly, but then they never did fight over anything important.

Back in London, Jeremy eventually took his brooding out on his laptop. Uncertain, out of sorts, and pining? Writing was usually his best answer.

Three hours in, with the first words of a new idea just starting to take shape, he began to realize that in this case writing might actually be _the_ answer.

 

\---

 

 

 

> _…My esteemed colleague likes to insist that all important, life-altering decisions require a great deal of thought and planning and should only be undertaken by the level-headed and completely sober. I will admit that, for a time, I agreed with him. Certainly he had never thrown away the best job in the world in a moment of blind idiocy. And it definitely seemed wise not to make any serious, lasting decisions in the same frantic state of career shock that had already lead me to attempt cooking._
> 
> _Fortunately, I have come to realize that the pho was definitely a kitchen-altering decision, but not a life-altering one. And to remember that every brilliant decision I have ever made (yes, and several of the worst as well) has been under conditions which are... How can I put this? Right. The opposite of thoughtful, level-headed and completely sober. Which only serves to prove my long-held theory on the folly of ever agreeing with James May._
> 
> _So, embrace the inebriated epiphanies, the things you latch onto in moments of passion, the comfort your tired brain gravitates towards when all is chaos and you can't even string two coherent sentences together. You might realize you've found a new career, or even a home. You might just fall in love._
> 
> _Of course, you might also find yourself freezing your arse off in the middle of Namibia with a pair of complete and utter morons for company. Then again, it's entirely possible that part’s brilliant too._

 

The column ran the Sunday after they arrived in Marrakech. Arranging that specific timing had necessitated asking his editor for a favor, but what was the point of having seniority if you didn’t use it occasionally? And in all honesty Jeremy only used it very occasionally.

Monday morning, as he showered and dressed in his hotel room alone, Jeremy realized the one glaring flaw with this particular cunning plan: while he was certain James would read the column, he had no way of predicting when that might occur. Bugger. Filming that day alternated between comforting distraction and absolute torture in direct proportion to how busy he happened to be at any particular moment, and his relative proximity to James.

Just as he was debating whether he could manage to get through dinner without standing up and shouting at James to read the fucking _Times_ on his mobile already, or if he might be better off trying to order room service instead, there was a knock at the door.

James looked utterly dazed as he walked into the room, but he was smiling, which on the whole seemed positive. Of course, he was also fidgety and couldn’t decide what do with his hands, which seemed inconclusive at best.

“Catch a little light reading this afternoon, Slow?” The world had yet to place an elephant in a room that Jeremy wouldn’t mention, though he wasn’t able to keep his voice as casual as he would have liked.

James brightened, his smile blooming into a beautiful thing that lit up his face and twinkled in his eyes. “Yes, actually. That was a rather thought-provoking column this week.”

Oh? But before Jeremy could ask for clarification, James apparently figured out what to do with his hands, pulling Jeremy close for a kiss, a tender press of lips that quickly grew into something deeper, a heated affirmation. Positive, definitely positive. Utterly fantastic in fact.

“Upon further consideration,” James breathed against the bare skin of Jeremy’s throat once they both managed to come up for air. “It seems that most of _my_ brilliant decisions involve agreeing to follow one of your daft plans. So here we are.”

Here they were indeed. Jeremy could think of dozens of things that he wanted to say, but in the end he just tangled his fingers into soft white hair and reeled the man in for another kiss. Finding the right words was a crucial skill for any writer, but understanding and embracing those moments when words were superfluous was every bit as important.


End file.
